


AKA Sleep Over

by InsominiacArrest



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Detox, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsominiacArrest/pseuds/InsominiacArrest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jessica is a twisted up in a sickness of recovery and Trish is bent on keeping close her link to something good about her childhood. Together they are a machine hobbling forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AKA Sleep Over

“Do you remember that time we made out to piss off your mom?” Jessica asks with a dull quirk to her grin, looking at Trish carefully for her reaction.

“Yeah, you asked if I wanted to really show the media something,” she chuckles, “in the park too.”

Jessica stares into the toilet boil and gives a tiny smile, “we had to hide your mom's closet. With a bottle of cognac.”

Trish slid down the door and stares at her, “that was same year you tried out for the show?”

“That was-” She can feel your body start to retch, her stomach chases it's tail in a tizzy. She pukes into the toilet bowl.

“Want some more water?”

Jessica nods her head shortly and then pukes again, everything aches and she has a feeling death is finally stopped fucking around and come to knock on her door. Too bad she's terrible at chess.

“I’m dying.” She articulates.

“Well,” she hands her a paper towel to wipe her face with, “you know what they say about consequences.”

“Yeah. They fucking suck.”

Trish laughs while looking at the ceiling, “you came on set and lifted the couch over your head. Said you could be my new goth best friend.”

Jessica snorts, “they kicked me off so fast your mom could barely get a ‘why you little’ in.”

“You were so reckless.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?”

She looks back at her and raises an eyebrow, “distract you.”

Jessica dry heaves into the toilet bowl, stomach constricting and lungs burning. “What day is it again?”

“Day three.” She sighs heavily. “Seven more to go.”

“Ugh. How is this worth it again?”

“Your liver will thank you.” Trish gets back up again, “and so will I. I can’t have my best friend dying twenty years before me.”

“Not if we both down Jack Daniel's everyday!” She cheers, Trish gives her a hard look, “sorry. Not funny.”

Jessica feels herself a little emptier, hallow even, she struggles to her feet and wobbles from side to side.

“Whoa, you sure you're done?”

Jessica shrugs, “I’ll keep a brown bag next to me.”

She steadies herself as she walks around Trish's apartment, get her orientation from the depths of a foggy brain and aching limbs, each arm feeling like a 30 pound weight. Which saying something since she can lift a lot more than that.

She yawns, covering it with one hand.

“Tired?”

She shakes her head, “I’m not sure how I’m going to sleep anymore without a little help from my friend, fermented vegetable.”

“Ha. Ha. Well, you should at least try, I even have some pajamas for you.”

“Don’t need ‘em.”

“How long have you been wearing those jeans?” She wrinkles her nose at Jessica.

“I dunno.” Lies. She had been on a four day bender, which is what led her to finally find herself knocking on Trish's door looking for...something.

“Exactly,” she pours Jessica and herself a glass of water. “Now, come on, I can even help you into them.”

She gives her a look, “you’re loving this.”

“No!” But she’s smiling, “you’re usually so strong, it’s weird to see you this way.” She walks up to Jessica and squeezes her shoulder, “I’m glad you’re letting me help.”

She rolls her eyes, “sap.”

“Drunk.”

She laughs a little and then slips on the aforementioned pajamas. They felt expensive and slightly above her weight class.

“These are big.” She calls to Trish in the other room as she makes the couch up.

“Hopeful! Maybe you’ll gain some weight after from transferring to a non-liquid diet.”

“Har har. Maybe if we ate something other than kale in here.”

She defends her kale lifestyle and Jessica argues a little, it would feel almost normal if it weren’t for the deep nausea in her gut and slight jack-hammer sharp head ache.

“You’re almost 30 Jessica. Gotta take care of yourself.”

“Yeah.” She walks over and slumps onto the partially made couch, “that’s me, Jessica the take-care-of-herself girl.” She replies sarcastically.

Trish comes over and kisses her on the head, “call me if you need anything.” She whispers into her hair.

Jessica feels a lump forming in her throat, so she just nods and curls up on the sofa.

“Night Jess,” She says as she turns off the light in the living room.

“Night.” She whispers back.

Jessica closes her eyes and tries counting, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 sheep...

The nausea keeps her on edge, body sweating a puddle into the couch as something like a demon gnaws at her insides, demanding a drink, freezing her systems and giving her chills and hot flashes all at once.

“Ah!” She almost tears the pillow in two from frustration, waiting, kicking, trying to sleep.

It’s three in the morning when some form of drowsiness makes it’s way into her eyes, they flutter shut.

She immediately misses the dreamless state of intoxication.

He’s there. He’s always there when she closes her eyes. A purple monster sneering at her, telling her to jump and jump again.

“How high?”

“Jump.”

“How high?” She’s crying, her voice strained and muscles crying out.

“Higher!” He screams in her face, she grabs his neck and twists until a sickening crack jerks his head to the right and he folds his body in two like tissue paper, blowing him over into the wind.

Luke is there, he touches her cheek, “beautiful.”

Jessica is breathing hard, sweating and panting into the dark. She hugs her arms around her body and shakes.

She stumbles to her feet and wanders over to Trish’s bed.

“Jess?” She says in a sleepy voice as Jess fumbles for her in the dark. “What is it?”

Jessica plants herself next to Trish and looks her in the face, “I’m so glad,” she buries her face in Trish's neck, “I’m so glad you're okay.”

“You’re so hot, did you have a drink? After all this?”

She just shakes her head.

“Here.” She pats the space next to her, “sleep next to me. Let’s talk.”

She smirks despite the vibrations in her hands, “or braid each others hair.”

“Hey," she wags a finger at her, “don’t knock the sleepover,” an easy smile spreads across her face, the one Jessica loves, “we had some good times.”

“Alright. But you know, black is the only polish I’ll wear.” She crawls over her into the space next to Trish, it felt wrong, but she was feeling weak. Small, and drained.

“Of course.”

Jessica faces Trish as her body falls apart underneath her, sick and going through a rejection of itself.

“I’m,” she bites her tongue, Trish turns around and their faces are inches apart, close enough to count the laugh lines around her eyes. Thank God she had laugh lines.

“You remember the time we made out in the park?”

“I already said yes. You were terrible at it.”

Jessica’s brow furrows, “one, I was fourteen, and two, you bit my tongue in the process.”

She almost laughs and sticks out her tongue, “and mom’s cognac was disgusting, we were stuck in the closet for hours pretending it was fantastic.”

Jessica laughs and stares down towards their feet, “what is it Jess?”

“I’m sorry.” She almost chokes, “I heard later...when she found you, and I wanted to believe you, believe when you said she didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, Jess, that was years ago! And it’s still eating you up?”

“It was my idea, and you,” she sighs, “I’m sorry. It was your first kiss, and you got...that bruise across your right eye for it.” She reaches and touches her eye gently.

Trish takes Jessica's hair and pushes it behind her ear, “that was _not_ my first kiss, thank God too.”

She cocks a questioning eyebrow up at her, “Bobby Jingle was. He played Conor, the surfer whose dad was coming in for business.”

“That was staged.”

“Well, we also went behind the stage too,”

“You never told me,” she said, sounding scandalized.

“I did! Just not by name, he was second-base Nelson. The one that felt me up so hard I thought my left boob would grow in crooked.”

Jessica smiles, “it didn’t.”

“Can you imagine the headlines?”

“Patsy, struggles with asymmetric bras.”

Trish laughs, “see? You can still joke.”

She rolls her eyes, “I’m trying to apologize for a traumatic childhood.”

“I’m not letting you! You can’t be my hero all the time and feel bad about it.”

“Well, lucky you, you’re my hero, you get to have me in your bed as I sweat into your sheets and puke in your toilets.”

She pets her hair again, “detox was never going to be easy.”

Jessica moves a little closer to her, “just, go to sleep. You have work in the morning.”

“And you don’t?”

“I make my own schedule.”

“Well, you better clear that schedule. Seven more days.”

“Seven more days of hell.”

She whispers to her, closer than ever, “Your strong. Been through worse.”

“Go to sleep.” Jessica repeats.

Trish closes her eyes, and so does she.

The dreams return to a drum beat of despair, Kilgraves face is above her, Jessica's hands are restrained above her head, breathing hard, his neck is crooked and yet he’s still smiling, “hello, Jessica.”

She tries to struggle, her clothes are falling off like peeling bark. He starts to strip her skin off layer by layer, get to her core.

“Ah!”

“Jessica, Jessica, Jess, sssh.” Trish is tucking Jessica's head under her chin. She hugs Jessica’s body to hers as she shakes.

“He was there, he was there.”

“Ssh, I know, I know.” She buries her face in Trish’s neck and they lay, breathing hard, skin against skin, trying to find comfort in the heart beat of the other.

Jessica, for once in a very long time, wraps her arms around Trish and they sit in the silence of a hard embrace.

“It’s going to be alright.”

“I need a drink.” She kisses her forehead.

“And I need a friend who live into her 60s.”

She starts to chuckle, starts to laugh, and then her eyes are streaming, body rocking as she laughs almost violently, Trish coos at her the whole time.

Living to 60. Her. Jessica Jones.

“I don’t deserve it.” She whispers.

She’s kissing her on the mouth, on the cheek, on the neck and then looks back up at her through her lashes, “you do.” Her mouth is warm and smooth, like porcelain and feathers fluttering over her wind bitten skin.

Jessica snorts, “what was that? Your mother's gone Trish. No need to piss her off.”

“And you’re still here.” She kisses her again, warmly, like a small fire flickering over her chapped lips.

They hug closer together, tangling their limbs in the sheets and allying against the frigid air of the apartment.

For once Jessica feels alone, without the ghosts of her past, and yet not completely lonely.

Her eyes shut, her body is still filled with mice that scour her veins and gnaw on her muscles, her stomach is still a pit of snakes eating each other and head still a thumping marching band bent on making it to state, but she sleeps.

She sleeps, and Trish’s warm form is there to greet her when she finally rolls over, awake, alive, sick.

Trish pets her head, and she is alive.


End file.
